Cold Shot (41 page)

“Stolen? From the Russians or the Chinese?”

“The Iranian intelligence services are good, but I doubt they’re
that
good,” he replied.

She looked at him suspiciously. “You always have a theory.”

“Not one that I can prove at the moment. I need more time to do some research.”

“But what do you think?” she persisted. “Your guesses are usually pretty good. Another nuclear proliferator?”

“Not just a nuclear proliferator . . . a
weapons
technology proliferator,” he corrected her. “That Chinese plane the
Lincoln
shot down last year was a better design than the Chinese should have been able to field at the time, even with technology they stole from us. The engines alone were more efficient than anything the PLA has ever managed to put into the air. And now someone helps the Iranians manufacture a nuclear warhead with a design far too complex for any first-time proliferator to develop on their own. I think you can count on one hand the number of countries with advanced warhead designs who also design and build jet engines.”

It didn’t take long for Kathy to run through the mental list. “Not many candidates, and most of them are friendlies. I don’t like that at all.”

“Neither do I. But someone is helping countries make generational leaps in technological advances, trying to get them up to par with us and our allies.”

Kathy nodded, then flipped through the pages in the binder. “I’ll call the DNI and arrange a meeting so you can brief him. He’s a good man. He’ll take it seriously.” She closed the book and looked up at Jon, staring straight into his eyes. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’ve already signed up to speak with a counselor in case there’s any PTSD—”

“That’s not what I meant,” she corrected him, shaking her head. “Jon, the Red Cell isn’t terribly popular around here . . . never has been. I always gave you cover, but now that I’ll be gone? You and Kyra have scored some big wins lately that’ve left some office directors a little jealous. There will be a lot of people moving to close you down and I doubt Rostow’s man will do anything to stop them. I don’t know where you or Kyra will end up and I don’t want to see you wasted.”

“More than I’ve already wasted my career?”

Kathy winced a bit. “I always thought you could do more than you were doing,” she admitted. “But if you’re happy, I have no reason to complain.”

“I don’t know if ‘happy’ is the word, but I don’t have to stay here,” he told her. “There are other places I can work. Kyra’s got nothing to prove by staying and I expect two Intelligence Stars will score her a decent job. She deserves a third for what she just did down south.”

“So do you and I’ve filed the paperwork for it. But don’t be surprised if Rostow’s man kills it.”

“I was never in this for the awards,” he told her.

“I know,” Kathy said.
That’s one thing I’ve always loved about you.
“Jon, would you like to come to dinner?”

He sat back, surprised. “A date?”

“Yes,” she said. “We’ve lost enough time and there’s no reason to lose any more now. I’ll be a private citizen, out of your chain of command. I think we should pick up where we left off . . . if you still want to.”

“I would like that,” he said. Jon finally smiled, not much, but enough.

Kathy leaned over and put her arms around him. He did the same to her and they held each other until the phone rang. “Sorry,” Kathy said. “I am still the director for another day.” She pulled away from him, stood, and walked to her desk. She hit the intercom button. “Yes?”

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” the secretary said. “Call for you. It’s the director of national intelligence.”

“Put him through,” Kathy said. She turned back to Jon. “I guess I have to take this.”

“I guess you do. I’ll let myself out . . . but I do have one favor to ask.”

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

The calligrapher fumbled with the keys, then finally managed to get the right piece of metal into the lock and he pulled the creaky drawer open. The tools were all there, just as he had left them six months before.
Too soon,
he thought. He wished that the pen case, the ink bottles, and the rest of his instruments were getting more time to gather a little dust. But the director had called him again this morning, before his computer had finished booting up and his coffee had cooled down, and like that his happy morning had come apart.

He lifted the tray out, carried it to the worktable, and set everything out in its place. The ink bottles each got a quick shake to make sure the contents hadn’t congealed, and then he pulled out the Gillott number 303 nib, fitted it into the pen handle, and set it on the marble rest. The ink was French, powdered gold mixed with gum arabic according to a recipe that was a century old. The pen held the Gillott nib, which was used for only one task. It sat unused for months at a time, sometimes years, in a small locked cabinet.
The longer the better,
he thought. But the director had called him this morning and asked for his services, so the calligrapher had set aside his other job, extracted his tools, and waited for the Book.

The Book of Honor was large, twenty inches by thirty-two when open, and bound in a brown, pebbled Moroccan leather cover. There were two pages inside with deckled edges, both made at a French mill that had first opened, by pure coincidence, in 1492. The handmade Arches paper was the best on which he had ever practiced his craft. Inscribing letters using ancient techniques with fine ink on these excellent sheets should have been pure joy for him, but he couldn’t take pleasure in it. By definition, he did this job at the worst of times and it was a lonely burden. The calligrapher was the only person who wrote in the Book and he used this pen and this ink only when he had to do so.

He idly wondered how many stars he would be asked to draw today. The suicide bombing at Khost in late 2009, almost a decade ago now, had forced the calligrapher’s predecessor to inscribe seven stars in one day. Over a hundred stars had been added to the Book since 1947, better than one per year on average. Nearly a quarter of those had been added in the last two decades and the world wasn’t becoming a safer place.

He prayed that the number today would be small. The left page of the Book had two columns, both full to the bottom with stars, years, and names. The right page also had two columns. The first was full. The second now had only a few inches of space left to spare. The Agency would need a new book soon.

But regardless of the number, the process for each was precise to the point of being mechanical. After using a pencil to sketch out the star, the year, and possibly the name, if that was allowed, he would dip his pen in the small black bottle far enough to cover the tip, then remove the excess on a rag. He would trace the star and fill it in, then remove the nib, clean it, and set it aside. Then he would fit the pen handle with a different nib, a Mitchell round-hand square, size three and a half, set it on a small marble rest, and uncap a second small inkwell, this one half filled with Japanese sumi ink as black as space itself. The ink would flow smoothly over the pencil lines he had laid down earlier. He would hold his hand by force of will. A single misplaced stroke would render the Book unfit for display. As he finished each entry, he would repeat the process for the next.

A quick turn of the pencil in the sharpener and everything was ready. The calligrapher double-checked his equipment and then sat back. Nothing to do but wait for the director to show up with the Book.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door creaked open behind him after five minutes, maybe less. He wasn’t watching the clock. The calligrapher closed his eyes for a quick second, then turned to face the senior officer. “Ma’am, I—”

He stopped short.
Who are you?
“Forgive me,” he said after an awkward pause. “You’re not the people who usually bring up the Book.”

“No, I guess not,” Jon said. Kyra stood next to him, holding the Book of Honor. “We asked to do it this time and Director Cooke agreed. I hope you don’t mind.”

You two must really be something.
Cooke considered that duty to be almost a religious matter. To give it up to someone else . . . there was a story there and he wondered how much he could ask. “It’s not my book, so it’s not my place to mind.” He extended his hand. “Charlie Stanton.”

Kyra shifted the Book so she could hold it in her left hand while she reached out with her right. “Kyra Stryker. This is Jonathan Burke.”

“A pleasure.” Stanton looked at the pair. Burke was keeping a neutral face but Stryker looked fairly somber, which was unfortunate for such a pretty girl. The reason for it was obvious. “You can lay it down here.”

“You want me to open it? Sorry, I’m not sure how you usually do this.”

“That’s okay.” Stanton gave Kyra a reassuring smile. “A little care and respect is good enough, and we’ll forgive anything else.”

Kyra set the Book of Honor on the table and gently opened it, holding her breath while laying both sides flat. She was scared to death that she’d tear the pages and didn’t relax until she could back away from the tome. “How did you get this job?”

“Learned from my mother,” Stanton said as he sat down. He reached for the pencil. “I figured I could make a little money on the side doing wedding invitations, stuff like that. Then I did one for a group chief of mine after I started working here. He got promoted to the seventh floor, then the previous calligrapher retired and my old boss floated my name. I guess I was the only candidate. Not too many people know how to do this by hand anymore. That was all ten years ago. I promise, I never asked for it.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would,” Kyra said. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Worst job I ever had. But maybe the most important,” Stanton admitted. “Are we doing the name or just the star?” He already knew the answer in his gut. He hadn’t heard of any deaths, either on the cable news networks, in the
Post,
or through the rumor mill that was, by far, the most efficient system of the three. That meant a covert operation had gone wrong and there would be no names in the Book again, just the year and a star. Maybe more than one.

“Just the star,” Jon confirmed. Cooke couldn’t sign off on this one. Not until Avila was dead or rotting in a Venezuelan jail and maybe not even then, depending on who replaced him.

The star, singular.
Just one, then.
He looked up at Stryker. She was trying not to cry, and failing. “You knew him, didn’t you?”

“We were there,” Kyra said with a shaky nod.

“Who was he?”

“She,”
Jonathan corrected him. “Marisa Mills.” Kyra’s face broke out in a sad smile and tears finally started to roll.

“At least you two made it out,” Stanton said. “At least I only have to draw one.”

“There will always be more,” Jon said.

“I wish you were wrong.” Stanton reached down, picked up the ruler and the pencil, and leaned over the Book.

Acknowledgments

Any list of supporters must begin with my wife, Janna, whose willingness to be a single mother for months at a time makes writing a book possible; whose faith in my writing exceeds my own; and who keeps my head on straight. I love you.

As always, the professionals at Simon & Schuster—Lauren Spiegel, Miya Kumangai, Shida Carr, Norma Hoffman, and many others who work so hard to make every book the best it can be, and far better than I could make them by myself. I live in fear of the day that I have to work with a different team because this one has set a high bar that any other will be hard pressed to meet.

Jason Yarn and Ken Freimann, who help filter the ideas that are working from the ones that are failing. Brutal honesty can be bitter medicine but this patient appreciates the results of the unsparing diagnoses these gentlemen deliver.

The CIA Publications Review Board, which makes a potentially difficult process as painless as possible. Despite accusations to the contrary, I’ve never found them to be difficult or bent on unfair censorship.

Finally, Rachel Hanig-Grunspan, one of the great friends of my life. You accepted a hard decision that helped me but hurt you far more than I ever intended. I hope someday to find a way to make it up to you.

Also by Mark Henshaw

Red Cell

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